Monster Hospital
by calamitybreak
Summary: You didn't think you'd ever have to see Dave drenched in someone else's blood. Of course, the fact that the recently deceased had suddenly stopped being quite as dead as they should have been changed all that.


Technically, this is an old story written for the 2011 Homestuck Shipping Olympics, but I figured that I may as well post it over here!

As this is a Dave/Bro story, there is an obvious warning for incest. However, it is implied more than anything, as nothing ~actually happens~. It also comes with a fanmix, but considering that ffnet doesn't like links, I can't link you to it. If you're really curious, though, you can ask and I will gladly give it to you :)

* * *

**MONSTER HOSPITAL  
(Bro's rules for surviving the zombie apocalypse)**

You didn't think you'd ever have to see Dave drenched in someone else's blood. The fact that the recently deceased had suddenly stopped being_quite as dead_ as they should have been changed all that.

To put it eloquently, the zombie fucking apocalypse was on your shoulders and now you had to get your shit together and _keep Dave alive._ The last thing you wanted was a shambling, limb-eating, brain dead monster for a little brother. Which was why, when the first zombie broke through your door, you were at it's throat in seconds, it's head rolling along the floor not a moment later.

A second one shambled towards Dave and _thank fuck_ you'd had the good sense to give Dave so much training. His sword extended out of nowhere and _slice_, just like that, another one bit the dust.

You looked out to check for more. There weren't, but definitely wasn't safe to stay there for much longer. So you gave Dave a quick fist bump, ruffled his hair and shooed him into the shower. While he was busy, you wrote up a short list of rules for keeping Dave safe. The first one you wrote, bolded and underlined because you are _so close_ to breaking it anyway:

_**DON'T FALL IN LOVE.**_

Because a zombie apocalypse was hard enough without having a raging boner for your seventeen year old little brother.

By the time he was done, everything was packed and ready and he didn't question it when you directed him to the window rather than the door.

Within minutes, the two of you had scaled down the building and piled into your old station wagon. He was silent, eyes forward while you tore out of the parking lot and down the road as fast as you could.

You didn't have a plan - just drove and drove and drove. Zombies roamed the streets uninhibited, and here's where you wonder - how the fuck did it become such a problem in such a short amount of time? You end up losing count of how many corpses you'd passed, stomach ripped open and organs trailing out.

"Bro," Dave says, and you snap your attention to him. He's watching his fingers, his lap, anything but the crowd outside. "Shit's fucked up."

You can hear the subtle change of pitch in his voice and you know, without a doubt, that all of this is getting to him.

_I'm scared._

You ruffle his hair and put an arm around him in an awkward hug. "I know," is all you say, but he relaxes and looks up and starts to watch you instead of his fingers.

_Me too, kid, but we'll be fine._

You had communication without speaking down to a fucking art.

* * *

Your first stop is a service station just outside of town. The man inside watches you warily, resting a shotgun on the counter and making it very clear that if you made just _one_ wrong move, he would have no qualms with blowing your head off.

You were quite happy with your head firmly attached to your shoulders, thank you very much.

Dave steps into the bathroom while you grab some rations and lean across the counter to talk to the man. He saves you the trouble by biting out a harsh, "I don't know nothing."

Which translates to something along the lines of _"Fuck you."_

You lean in closer, close enough so he can just see your eyes through the shades, and he wavers ever so slightly. It only takes one more concentrated glare before he's all but tripping over himself to tell you what he knows.

He swallows, still nervous, and grips his shotgun closer. "Look. Fine. I heard some rumours of a safe place a bit to the west. A couple hundred miles or something."

You honestly doubt this place exists, which brings you to the second rule on your list:

_**TRUST NO FUCKER.**_

And you don't, especially with the way he shuffles about, fiddles with his shirt and his shotgun and anything else he can get his hands on. So you ask, "Who's running this place?"

He frowns. "Fuck, I don't know! The military or something. Shit, can't you leave a man to mourn in peace? Jesus," he starts swearing and you tune him out. Dave appears by your side, gives the man a curt nod and takes the few bags of groceries you have up on the counter.

You see him get back in the car and rip into a pack of chips and guilt sucker-punches you in the stomach. You didn't even give him a good meal before you left. Kid's probably starving.

The man is raving some more and you don't wait for him to calm down before you speak again. "You have any gas cans?"

He's grumbling and growling at you and sending you dirty looks but you don't care. He stares you down for a moment before disappearing into the back and returning with a few full cans of gas.

You leave the money on the counter - won't do you much good where you're going - nod his way and get the fuck out of there.

Dave's digging into the bread when you get in the car and throw the cans in the back seat. He nods to you and without a word you get back on the road and start heading east.

Because fuck him, you didn't trust a word he said. So the only logical thing to do would be the exact opposite of what he said, and that's just what you were doing.

"Trust no fucker," you say to yourself, and Dave nods in agreement.

* * *

It's only when Dave's head starts slumping on to his chest that you start to slow down. You find an old abandoned shed to hide the wagon behind, and tell Dave to stay put while you go and see if there are any of the fuckers hanging around.

"Fuck off," he says, pushing himself out of his seat and rubbing his eyes. He grabs his sword and walks next to you, arm brushing against yours ever so slightly.

You circle around the old shack, finding four of them standing around a dead cow. You nod, ever so slightly, and they're down in a matter of seconds, not a spot of blood on either of you.

Which is good, because there probably won't be any dry cleaning for a while.

You circle around a three more times, just to make sure (you can never be too sure), then you hustle Dave back to the car. You open the back door and shove everything on to the floor (shitty swords and food, mostly. Everything else is in the boot). Dave climbs in first, and you shut the door behind.

"Bro."

He doesn't say anything else, but you lean back against the door and pull him up against your chest. He hesitates, just a moment, before he lays his head on your chest and breathes out slowly.

"Tomorrow-"

"We'll fuck shit up," you promise, smoothing his hair down.

Dave murmurs in agreement. His inhibitions are gone and he's warm against your chest and you can feel him breathe against your shirt and you have never felt such a fierce need to protect him. Not even when he was thirteen and finally stepping out of your shadow.

_**DON'T SLEEP**_

This rule is absolutely important. Sleeping means vulnerability, and you can't have that. There is no room for silly mistakes, no time to say _"oops, let's try again"_, no respawns, no extra lives.

You have to stay awake because staying awake means _staying alive_.

You keep a watch out for zombies, keep your head ducked down low and stay still. The night is cold outside, but you don't feel it. Not with Dave up against you.

He buries his face into your neck and suddenly, you're repeating your first rule over and over in your head, like a mantra. He is _so close_ and you want to touch, want to do so much more- but you don't.

And you won't, because Dave doesn't need something like this to fuck him over even more.

He's dreaming, fingers curling into your side and you're repeating this rule so many fucking times that when you finally, reluctantly, drift off to sleep, you dream about it.

Most of all, you dream about breaking it.

* * *

You continue like this for a few weeks, driving and living off what food you can scavenge. You run out of gas more often than you'd like and you have to trek it a few hours before you come across anyone willing to sell you gas (or, more accurately, before you find someone to steal it from).

You come across less civilization as time passes, encounter more shambling corpses with a taste for fresh meat. Dave handles it well, surging forward without a second thought. Sometimes you play the radio, search for something, anything, some sign that this might all _end_- but nothing comes.

Nothing ever comes.

So you just hide the car every night and hold Dave close while he sleeps.

You are running almost purely on energy drinks you've horded, but you don't let it show. You don't let your hands shake or your head droop and you are just as fast, just as accurate with each passing day. You can't let Dave know that you're slipping.

Somehow, he knows anyway. So that night, when you bundle into the back seat, it's Dave who pulls you on top. You go to protest, push yourself off him, _come on lil' bro this ain't ironic_, but he doesn't move.

You're bigger than him - not so much in height anymore but in build, with broader shoulders and a stockier chest, and you don't quite fit in his arms. It's awkward, with limbs going everywhere, and you're afraid you'll crush him, but he doesn't move.

"Dave-"

"Shut up, Bro," he cuts you off, "and go the fuck to sleep."

You realize he's not going to sleep until you do. You consider staying awake just to spite him, but you can't really fool yourself anymore, and you reluctantly let yourself sleep in his arms.

Some time during the night the two of you flip over, simply uncomfortable with Dave underneath you. You end up just like you were every other night, with Dave pressed against your chest and his head in the crook of your neck.

You have to say, it's probably the best night's sleep you've had in a while.

* * *

You wake up to a horrible scream and the sound of glass breaking, feel the tiny shards fall onto your face. A hand claws at your cheek and you are sluggish, move far too slowly for the amount of sleep you got (_what's wrong, what's wrong, it shouldn't be like this_).

To your surprise it's Dave who collects his shit first, throwing himself off you and slicing at the hand with nothing more than a grunt. He jumps over the seat and into the front. No time for seat belts, he slams his feet down on the accelerator. The car jumps to a start and he reverses into not one, not two, but about five of the fuckers shambling towards you.

Somehow, over the course of the night, your tiny little spot became the prime hotspot for zombies everywhere. Feeling lonely and single? Come visit the Strider Hideout! Maybe feast on some delicious Strider meat! Never dine alone- you cut that train of thought off right there, because what the fuck. This is not the time to be going delirious.

Dave's gritting his teeth, muscles tensed and eyes wide and you notice that he left his shades on your chest. You reach forward and slip them over his eyes. He grunts, spins the steering wheel and pushes out on to the road.

You're holding on for dear life and Dave is holding the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white. He drives fast, finally back on to the road and breaking free of the spontaneously appearing zombie horde.

He's breathing out slowly, and now that they're long behind, you have time to slow down and think. Dave's starting to shake, adrenaline wearing off and shock setting in. You touch his arm and he pulls over without a word.

Dave slides into the passenger seat and you jump into the front. This takes all of about a few seconds, and you want to get moving before Dave has time to see your cheek-

"Bro, I can see it."

You start the car, almost start rolling on to the road but Dave won't have it.

"Bro, stop being a pizzadick and let me do something about that."

You glance his way. You're reluctant to stay still - reluctant to stop moving with that crowd behind you, but Dave's glaring so you relax your hands and lean back.

Dave takes that as his cue. He reaches underneath the seat to pull out one of many first aid kits and climbs on top of you. Your hands rest on his hips, holding him in place, and is it just you or does he _shiver a tiny bit_? You clear that thought, tilt your head and he takes your jaw in his hand.

He frowns ever so slightly - a tiny tug on the lips that no one else would be able to see. You know what he's thinking, because you're thinking it too - _zombie?_

And that is your absolute worst fear - becoming one of _them_. You don't want to leave Dave behind - not now, not just yet. So you grit your teeth, let Dave wash away the blood on your cheek, and refuse to think about it.

Dave sticks some bandaids to your jaw and you resist the urge to chuckle at the role reversal. He slides off your lap (_a shame_, you think, and almost kick yourself) and returns to his side of the car, shoving the first aid kit back under the seat. "There," he says.

You reach over and ruffle his hair and he smacks you away, curses "Goddamnit, Bro." You grin and he throws a packet of chips at your face, puts a CD on, and that's it for speaking.

* * *

The end comes on a Tuesday, which is ironic, because you've always hated Tuesdays. But this isn't the time for irony, isn't the place, and _what the fuck are you doing on the ground_.

Oh wait, that's right. You drove away from one zombie horde straight into another, only this one was bigger and angrier and _hungry as fuck_.

So angry, in fact, that the moment you turn the corner and _holy fuck, there they are_, they've swarmed the car, banging it, smashing windows, all but tearing the doors off, and you can't move. Dave gives you a nod. You slide the sunroof open and then he's out, sword at the ready. You follow him, and for minutes it is pure, unadulterated mayhem.

Zombies are screaming and falling and you can't see Dave anywhere. The noise picks up and rings in your ears but you block it all out. You're surging forward, cutting them down with ease, weaving in and out.

It's when you find Dave that everything goes to shit. He's in the middle of a crowd, nothing worrying, but you push yourself forward anyway to stand by his side. Except one of the zombies you passed had different plans, and was armed rather unhelpfully with one of the shitty swords you'd cast aside.

The sword finds a quick home in the middle of your chest.

Dave sees you then, and a terrible noise rips through the air. You're not sure where it came from but all you can focus on is the pain, the fact that there's a fucking _sword_ lodged in your chest and you can't breathe properly, can't feel the ground underneath you, can't see for the blood now coating your hands.

All your nightmares flash before your eyes, and the only thing you can see is Dave. Alone.

And you can't have that.

You fall, and Dave is there by your side. Without a word, he scoops you up in his arms and starts running, but you're too heavy, too awkward. He's slow and staggered and you want to tell him to put you down, leave you behind but you can't - your voice isn't working and your eyes are blurring and there's blood, _so much fucking blood_ that it's coating his arms and dripping a trail and _fuck_, it hurts. You didn't think it'd hurt this much.

You would have given anything for Dave not to see this, but it's happening and it's real and he's not letting you go.

He finds the car and shoves you into the passenger seat. The car gives a weak little cough and for a moment you think it's not going to start until it jumps to life and Dave drives off the road, through what sparse bushes and trees were left.

"Dave, stop," you eventually wheeze, slumped over yourself and pouring blood out all over your seats. He pulls over immediately and you open the door, falling out. Dave is there to catch you, sits you down on the side of the road. Except you don't sit (_can't sit_), you fall over Dave's legs, your head in his lap.

You hold your fist out, and he stares at it blankly before giving a weak fist bunp. "Your turn, lil' bro," you choke out.

He doesn't smile, doesn't cry, just says, "Bye, Bro."

Because that's all there is to say on the matter.

* * *

The last rule on your list was simple, really:

_**DON'T FUCKING DIE**_

You tried your hardest with this one, you really did, but some things just can't be helped.

_Sorry, Dave._

* * *

Bro dies in your lap.

You hold his head for just a moment, then you lay him down properly. You fix his shades and his hat and then you get in the car and drive away.

Your name is Dave Strider and you started the apocalypse with your brother by your side. Now he's dead, and someone was going to pay.

Your name is Dave Strider and you are going to fuck. Shit. _Up._


End file.
